


Meeting of the Hearts

by kiritsu007



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 08:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30018639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiritsu007/pseuds/kiritsu007
Summary: "If you keep your eyes closed, I'm just like him."
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Patroclus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Patroclus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	Meeting of the Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [deux fois béni](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889837) by [decoying](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decoying/pseuds/decoying). 



> Partially spurred on by the need to have fluff and comfort as I read through the masterful heartbreak of @stelladown's work //cries//
> 
> There are too many works and artpieces I'm inspired by, in this wonderful fandom, and I can only use "inspired by" once ㅠㅠ so I'll just list all the ones I can remember! 
> 
> Largely inspired by decoying: [deux fois béni](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889837/chapters/68664474)  
> (it's amazing!!) go read it!! It's basically if all the unnecessary padding was taken out!  
> HurricanesWriting: [open your mind (to the possibility (nay, the fact))](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623771)  
> Luddleston: [Pomegranate Seeds and a Flower Crown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902204)  
> StellaDown: [dust](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155935)  
> @ra9dical: [Nereid Achilles](https://twitter.com/ra9ical/status/1362590072281985026)  
> Artwork: ["if you keep your eyes close"](https://twitter.com/emilyyyhu/status/1316782299124396033?s=20)  
> Artwork:[messenger](https://twitter.com/theyoungdoyler/status/1336491210404466688/photo/2)
> 
> Also I'm basing this fic entirely on the game because I haven't read the Illiad or TSOA in fear of the utter decimation it'll bring to my emotional state, so I apologise for any inaccuracies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bonding of Patroclus and Zagreus, as Patroclus overcomes his grief.

Since learning of Achilles from the stranger, his first thought was, of course, Achilles. After so long spent waiting, not knowing if he was here among faceless warriors, or lost to him someplace beyond death, the indication that he was here stood right before him. Suddenly, he recalled again the war, of fighting in it; when he couldn’t possibly spare any time to think about him, and yet, it seemed he’d thought of him every moment. He remembered imagining golden hands guiding his own. 

That day, the stranger bore multiple wounds and looked to be cheerfully bleeding to death, though that wasn’t an unusual sight. He’d mentioned Achilles with clear reverence in his voice. Patroclus could hear the love trace that well-trodden road as if he’d been alive and listening to some of the maidens whispering behind, and some in front of, the tents.

He had watched with new eyes upon freshly-discovered nobility. So his love served Lord Hades...and mentored his son. His son, who would jog into his glade with a confident stride and a quip whenever he managed to make it without a scratch. He’d never stay for long, but their short conversations would leave the glade’s air lighter. Other times, whenever he was in a particularly darker mood and injuries marked his body, he would angle flaming feet slightly inwards in a manner that betrayed his unrest. The stranger would then grasp his customary flask of Styx and sit next to him, not close enough for their fingers to touch, but close enough to sense that he wanted to. From the sneaking glances up his exposed thigh one day, he knew that it would be easy, too easy, to indulge in temporary forgetfulness.

He looked, and looked again.

It was too much. It was barely enough. To know that Achilles’ eyes had lain upon this man, to know they had beheld the same being not a nightwatch, not a scant hour in between that separated their gazes. And though he considered his non-heart long gone for anyone other than Achilles, he didn’t quite have the confidence to believe in the converse. (And wasn’t that a thought? That his one truth could lay so shattered beyond repair, while he sat at the epicentre of the disaster, alone.) He could see Achilles loving him. He clenched, then relaxed his fingers, and saw through Achilles’ eyes, saw through his own. At the sudden onslaught of his love’s presence wetting his heart’s land of perpetual drought, Patroclus wanted with an ache.

“...and what of the war, stranger? Or shall I say, what, exactly, happened to Achilles?” He stared into soulless statues and felt again the gentle cleave into his stomach. “...After I died, that is. I’ve heard rumours, but,” _imagining you here, and instead choosing not to see me,..._ “...I don’t trust any of this boastful lot.”

Zagreus shifted his feet.

“Well, from what I can gather, sir...After you fell, he was overcome with grief. And anger. He joined the war. Just like you urged. And single-handedly, he almost ended it.” 

He’s not sure what expression was on his face, but it must not have been very placid because Zagreus hurried to add, “He’s forced to do my father's bidding, now, and sworn to secrecy. But...I think he’s doing well. I hope you can see for yourself.” 

The news wrung from him a familiar pulse of agony. The tinge of relief that came along was new but wholly expected, and it sharpened his grief; at least he knew the truth of what had happened, even if it was not what he wanted to hear. It was a wonder that he had any connection left with his love at all, and this was aeons better than the torture of unknowingness conjured by his thoughts. If this was all the Fates saw fit to give him, he thought grimly, he would be hard-pressed not to take the thread, and wind it possessively around his fingers. 

He was dragged out of his reverie by the rustling of fabric and the glint of gold that came into his view. The stranger held out a bottle of nectar, and the slump of pauldron-clad shoulders told him he was sorry he couldn’t offer what he wanted most, but still yearned to ease his pain. He could see that the stranger didn’t fully understand how two people could love each other and hurt so much, like this, so weighed down with mortality, but he was kind enough to want to distract from it. Eyes lidded, Patroclus accepted the bottle and took in the sight of the figure standing servile in front of him. He wondered if it was how similar the stranger was to Achilles that made him look, or if it was his own longing for Achilles that made him see what he saw in the godling.

In kindness utterly at odds with the solitude he was used to, and in a queer reverse from his usual role in seeking reprieve, the stranger sat down, dipped his toes into the water, and stared into the distant soulless statues with him.

* * *

He’d thought he’d have gotten used to it. The endless waiting for nothing; waiting for the sake of it. But now, the punctuation of the stranger’s occasional visits bore stark reminders of his _philtatos_. The stranger had likely meant to cleanse his festering wound with seawater, but Patroclus could only feel the burn of its sting left behind. So it was with no warning at all that it snuck up on him: memories he’d thought were sucked dry of all emotion, all pain and bargaining and tears, when he had first arrived and was truly desperate in his search for him. Said memories came in painful vividness and tender succession. Achilles, with his golden hair and arrogant smirk; Achilles, with the twist of his waist and ring of his laugh after a successful skirmish; Achilles, with his eyes hardened as he sat listening to the king's pomp; Achilles, with his face gentle and brushed with sunlight, asleep as he stole away…

(The nectar must have softened his heart. The stuff of gods, it was sweet upon his tongue. Nothing but a reminder of his human facets, as taste was wont to be.)

“Every time I think of you, I think of how I thought you were invincible.” 

“I knew of no one, nothing stronger, other than the love we shared. Was I deceived, in thinking of you, of us?” 

“How could you care more to be remembered by those who would never know you, than to be loved…,” _by me,_ he could not bring himself to think. Was his love not enough? His promises of a life together, earnest, rang unbidden in his head. He remembered the warmth that spread through him, when he had imagined Achilles’s enthusiastic agreement. Was it ever enough, when he tried to sway him to join the war, not for him, but for a chance at time spent together just a little longer? (Achilles had sent his love. What was the use of love?)

“Every time I think of you...I damn your foolish pride.” _And all the longing I have endured until now..._

“I keep remembering – I keep remembering. My heart has no pity on me...but I suppose you didn’t, too.”

Yet again, he received no answer. 

* * *

“He's never going to return to me, is he,” he said, calmly, the next time footsteps approached. He’d refused to fight as soon as he set foot upon Elysium, so the champions hungering for a brawl knew better than to bother him by now. Those footsteps slowed at his words, and sizzled cautiously forward. “He's in your father's service now. He's never getting out.” Patroclus faced the opposite end of the stranger’s usual entrance, and didn’t turn to look at his reaction. “He’s never getting out,” he repeated, and thrilled in the spike of pain in his chest, at the finality of those words, “and neither are you.” 

With his vow to not take up arms, he’d notched arrows on his tongue and bore swords in his eyes. Those he’d drawn and thrown, he’d done so to fend off remarks from warriors slain by Achilles, seeking to approach him with taunts or misdirected pity. He imagined the stranger’s pretty eyes dimming, envisioning the hurt curl of fingers around that painfully familiar spear. The strung armaments had pulled taught, ready to tear apart the delicate flesh of the heart, and he had done nothing to stop it. What good it was, what good anything was, where they were trapped in this glade, unmoving. It was life’s cruelty to feel, and the Lethe compelled more than ever before. 

The scent of burning grass rose as the stranger approached, and he continued staring listlessly forward even as the stark red of his chiton stood glaringly against the green of Elysium, beckoning his gaze.

The stranger tightened his grip around his sword, as if wanting to fight the demons that flit around his head, and inhaled sharply.

“Listen, sir, don't give in to what you're feeling now, all right? Because I won’t stand for it. I won’t.”

It must have been a long time since he’d heard anything resembling optimism, and he wanted to laugh at how old he had become...for such youth to stump him in its hopefulness. Something fractured in him broke at that reply. He wanted to take that arrogance, that pride, that damnable determination, and find it hateful, to hurl it into the river and shout. He choked on these bubbling thoughts. Instead, those syllables looped over him, and curled around his chest. 

Like the chlams as they clung with their mouths to the riverbanks, like his hands as they gripped the slippery shaft protruding out his gut, he held on to those words, and didn’t let go.

* * *

For the longest time, he existed as an afterthought for a memory, but as of late, he had shifted and began to exist, instead, for a man.

Previously, in an attempt to isolate himself, he had made sure to return in equal exchange of nectar, a Kiss of Styx or the odd cyclops jerky. Even before his stranger had revealed his identity, he could, in part, sense his godhood, and no more desired to incur his wrath than his gratitude. It must have been the tenderness in his stranger’s smile as he greeted him, every time looking worse for wear with injuries that would have killed a mortal, or it might have been his exuberant voice as his stranger met his silence with grace and offered the latest gossip at the House, or the funniest thing Theseus had to say after their fights. Each time his stranger left his glade trailing smoke and vigour, he found himself considering amending his personal pact of equivalent exchange more and more.

It must have been all that, for something like worry to move in his chest when he next saw the trail of burnt grass. Lurid contusions bloomed on his stranger’s chest. His leggings were torn, and most of his legs were visible above their greaves, revealing gruesome lacerations along his left thigh. The red of his chiton sagged above his waist in a way he knew to be wet with blood. He finally conceded to instincts that demanded he cleanse and wrap and treat. He again wondered what the underworld was like outside Elysium, and how his stranger managed to remain so unwaveringly gentle in spite of it.

“Sir, am I ever glad to see you!” His stranger nearly collapsed upon nearing him, but seemed to think better and sat up, smoothing his chiton out in a rather futile gesture. As pinkened cheeks refused to meet his gaze, it occurred bizarrely to Patroclus that it might have been in embarrassment of his state of propriety, rather than anything over his wounds. How strange were underworld customs, like offering god’s drink to a stranger and being sheepish over exposed legs when your entire shoulder was bare.

Patroclus stood up, and amused at the widening of his stranger’s eyes as he whipped his head up to look. He didn’t miss the way they focused on the flex of his calves, trailing up, and up. How long had he sat there, unmoving? He fetched swathes of bandage and a bowl of saltwater, and returned to pass his stranger his customary refreshment. He’d used to delight in the charade they rehearsed, a play acting out, like he didn’t know what his stranger was going to get every time. Recently, he'd decided he preferred the insinuation of intimacy a wordless offer of drink brought with it. Patroclus watched those exhausted features spread into another grin. 

When his stranger offered his own customary bottle of nectar, he quirked his lips and shook his head. 

His stranger looked panicked for a moment, and then determined.

“As payment,” his stranger protested. 

Patroclus grasped the cool bottle in his hand and gently but firmly pushed it back. “I insist.” 

It was too late for the scales not to tip over in gratitude. He now knew that theirs was never an equal exchange, and today he waited to unbalance the scales himself. He wouldn’t mind kneeling at those feet to lave appreciation in a much more mutually satisfying way, that was certain. He would let his stranger decide how much of their fingers brushing was an accident. Nobody said he couldn’t have his fun in the afterlife, too, and the prince’s embarrassment was too lovely to resist. At the blush and flutter of lashes when his stranger dipped his head, Patroclus resisted the urge to lower his own in a doubtlessly mirrored reciprocation.

When the last of the drink disappeared down his throat, Patroclus said, “Here, let me bandage those for you. That many wounds mustn’t feel very comfortable, and you would be hard-pressed to battle at full-speed afterwards.” 

His stranger propped a leg up, and said, bashfully, “I usually just die afterwards, but I’d like that.” 

Patroclus placed the bowl and bandages down, and sat close enough to feel the heat radiating off his stranger’s skin. It was comforting, after feeling so long the cool mist of the Lethe. He worked, and his stare glided over the skin his hands passed over, all the way up to bejewelled eyes and burning laurels. He recognised the tightening in his chest for what it was, and gave himself a moment to cup the fledgeling creature in his palms. He imagined smothering it where it lay, just bringing those hands together and crushing the tender thing until its bones powdered and flesh squashed wetly.   
The moment was over. He let it go and it flowed out from between his hands, into the pounding of his heart, the slowing of his fingers in touches that lingered slightly longer than necessary. He let out a small huff that was so slight it might have been a regular exhale, and thought wryly that the prince was unlikely to notice, with his unfamiliarity of wound care and subtlety. 

Some time passed, measured with the rush of the Lethe, and the existence of two people in one space. His prince exhaled. “You remember...Meg and Than.” Patroclus nodded as he recalled one of their previous conversations. 

“Lately...we’ve been talking a bit more, and I’m happy that they feel interested in me the same as I do, but...I’m nervous about pursuing things further." He spoke of his ignorance not knowing the world above, of constantly putting his feet in his mouth. 

“Sometimes I wonder if Than can help it, the way he disappears on me so often. There’s no way he could be embarrassed every time, right? I feel like I’m always...saying the wrong things.” 

He spoke of being younger and inexperienced. “I don’t know as much as Meg does in terms of...pleasures wrought from the body, but I want to please her…," such were the grave sins he confessed. 

Patroclus knew it was deeply inappropriate, but he couldn’t help thinking of his stranger laid stretched out, blanketed by taller frames. He mused that those two would definitely not mind someone freshly plucked for the taking, would likely delight in drawing forth sweet sounds and spilling red over untouched skin. How sensitive would he be! He imagined every touch resonating through muscle, the trim of his waist and curve of his neck as he arched his back in pleasure. Patroclus had little impression of what they looked like, but just the image of his prince’s submission made for a beautiful vision. 

He tried to disguise his sudden shift in focus. “No issues between both of them?” His stranger must have mistaken it for discomfort towards a triad tryst.

“I know it must be different on the surface, having only one suitor. It’s a valid custom! If it’s yours...” Here his stranger's eyes squinted, and he looked so desperate to understand this mortal peculiarity that it was quite amusing. Patroclus envisioned him bursting with so much affection to give, and felt the impossibility for him to retain it to just one person. He wondered if those affections might extend to himself.

“With only one life's time to give, having one suitor happens to be likely the case. You, on the other hand, flow with an endless devotion for so many you have come to care about. It is no wonder everybody is drawn to you, especially in the land of the dead,” _present company not excluded._

He paused, and said boldly, “It’s true that though I have shared my body with multiple others and my heart only with one, lately I've come across something that’s convinced me to revise that custom.” His stranger must have known that nothing other than him had come across his glade as of late, and he had definitely made his stance on Theseus quite clear. 

Thus the prince replied with a startled laugh, though he was pleased to see laurel leaves pop in betrayal of his composure.

In all seriousness, Patroclus returned to lay rest those fears. “You needn't worry, stranger. You are wonderful as you are, and anyone who believes otherwise, I should think quite distasteful. Your partners care for _you,_ not for whatever knowledge you have or not of the surface. And it goes without saying that I believe you will one day breach the top. Such knowledge of things won't always be forever beyond your reach.” 

He continued. 

“Nobody begins as a master. Miss Megaera has undoubtedly had the opportunity to practice her technique somewhere.” He tried to hide his shock at the mumbled “Aphrodite,” in reply. “You shall definitely please her well. After all, you do so for me already, right now.” 

And oh, the sight of him, mouth parted and chin tilted upwards, looking intoxicated with these kind words, an errant vine reaching to twine around the pillar that was Patroclus, and into his lap. He blossomed like a flower more radiant than any of the youths and maidens gifted to undeserving heroes on the surface. Protectiveness rose in his chest, to shield his stranger from all undeserving insects waiting to prey on him. What would it be like, to taste his sweet nectar? 

_Tsk, Achilles,_ he chided, _what are you doing at your useless post?_ His love’s duty was of the prince’s mentor; how could he let such thoughts go unassuaged for so long? Though doubtlessly Patroclus managed to do a better job of whatever clumsy attempts his lover could make at dealing with emotion. 

He ran a hand (too licentious to pass as comforting by a measure) over the juncture between his stranger’s neck and shoulder.

They sat in silence for a little while longer, until most grievous wounds were clean, and the furrow in his stranger’s brow smoothed, albeit his face was quite a shade redder. Patroclus tapped his shoulder to signal he was done, and his stranger jumped to his feet. With crinkled eyes, he offered a grin in thanks that shone like starlight, and Patroclus saw that instead of bolting away to the next chamber, it was with a steady walk that he approached the exit. He liked to think the slowing of that swift-footed gait was because of him, and not the injuries. 

In the silence left behind after the large gate fell, he noticed a single laurel leaf that hadn’t burnt away, gleaming golden amongst the Elysian grass. He picked it up and stared at it. To gather shiny baubles was such a primitive instinct borne of innate need. He’d thought himself beyond such humanity already, but it seemed his prince brought such inclinations back. Tucking it in the cloth over his breast, he contemplated that alongside the instinct to gather, he’d nurtured other long-forgotten feelings as well.

* * *

At first, he had sought out his stranger for comfort, a southing poultice over an unclosing wound. But now, the wound was as closed as it had ever been, and Patroclus looked forward to other things. He looked forward to taking care of never-ending injuries, regaling tales of the surface to his stranger’s fascination, to sit watchfully on a rock far from the river as his stranger dipped his smouldering feet into the Lethe. No matter how many times he had seen it, Patroclus was endlessly fascinated by how those flames never went out. He let his lashes lower and brow soften in fondness. 

When his stranger caught him in the act, he met his gaze openly. Another sprinkle of laurel leaves flashed, and he made note of where the largest fell so he could pick it up later.

He didn’t know how easy it was to indulge in the gentle lull of hope brought with his ever-warm touch, the kind set of his eyes. There was a confidence to him, rooted and different from Achilles’ stubbornness. Perhaps it was a trait born from never fearing Death (it would be quite counter-productive, he supposed, in their occasional coupling), or from never having seen the folly of humans as a god trapped under the surface. 

Today, his stranger wished to know more about said surface, and those elusive mortal men brimming with blood and hubris. Patroclus, in an uncharacteristic notion, flattered himself as a formal mortal, thus able to offer a suiting perspective untinged by excessive divinity. He proceeded to speak of the stars, and journeys sailing across the sea. He spoke of rain that didn’t burn stone, clouds that were bone white, sunlight that was yellow and red and ever-changing, snow colder than metal and disappearing upon one’s touch. 

At a lull in his description, his stranger asks for a tale of his time spent with others during the war. Achilles’ name had went carefully unmentioned. As plain as day, Patroclus sees the questions, _What was it like growing up together? What was Achilles like on the surface?_

Patroclus begins with routines of cooking, feeding, and grooming the horses, but soon meanders to routines with Achilles in war, his love impatient, impulsive, and recalcitrant. Achilles in battle then, strong, loyal, and fearless. And in turn, his stranger tells him of the Achilles standing vigil in the House. He speaks of their training sessions, of his colleagues, of mutual sorrow shared with their court musician. They both laugh at his hatred of onions. Patroclus tells him of the time Achilles tried to catch a fish with just his hands and teeth. He had watched him trip into the river, rising up a sodden but triumphant mess with a wiggling trout clasped in his paws. He tells his stranger a story of him and Achilles, alive, under the stars. 

Listening, his stranger looked beautiful in love, for his yearning for the world above, and possibly, for the figures in the tale he was recalling. As the glowing lights of Elysium reflected in his stranger’s eyes, he thought, maybe this is what he needed, the both of them needed. Something untwisted, where they could wind themselves against him, and untangle their matted souls. 

* * *

Patroclus supposed that he didn’t mind waiting as much, now, with these conversations. He found himself living in periods of two instances, suspended in time with his conversation, and without. His previous understanding of how Achilles could love the prince seemed trite, when he looked at him now. 

He thinks of the next message to send, and of a paltry attempt to weave the three of them together. “Tell him...that…...I think of him day and night, as well.“ And seeing the elation on Zagreus’ face, knowing that smile was because of him, he leaned in and kissed him chastely. 

“...Was that for him, too?” Zagreus asked, the pause not sounding so much as disappointed as dazedly lost for words. Patroclus chuckled fondly, and wondered how anyone could be so sweet. “That one’s just for you. Good luck this time, getting out, though not too much luck so we won’t see each other again.”

If his stranger’s head crashed against the pillars when heading off to the next chamber, well, nobody was around to hear Patroclus’ quiet laugh. 

* * *

He’d taken to sitting at a different spot at the glade, lately. Not so far from his usual place, for fear of his stranger not being able to find him. (It was an intoxicating revelation, where before he couldn’t remember last ever wanting to be found.)

Patroclus had also begun taking strands of Elysium grass, and drying them by fires that came by increasingly often. With the dried stalks he wove together several creels; into the larger one his stranger slipped freshly-caught fish, and into the smaller one chlams.

Together they roasted a fish over a fire lit by his stranger’s feet. The Lethe worked in strange unexpected ways, as the fish seemed to forget the terror of being caught and the pain of being killed, with meat so sweet it echoed of honey. Full from their meal, his stranger tells Patroclus a story of a prince regaining access to the administrative chamber of his father’s House.

Patroclus unwrapped those words around his sternum, and thought of what they could mean. Trepidation tripped his hope in its path. He thought of armour unworn and words unsaid. For the first time in his eternal existence beyond life, he wished for more time, to ponder this decision that should have seemed monumentally predetermined. Only Achilles, he mused wryly, could render him so unsure again. 

As if reminding him of his godhood, his stranger sought to quiet the unvoiced doubts in his mind. 

“After I mentioned the stuff about the war, he wasn’t too pleased with me...He warned me not to meddle further, but I think it’s right to tell you, sir, and it's your right to know. After you died...Achilles asked to have his ashes mixed with yours.” 

Although Patroclus knew that Achilles must have wanted to be together in the afterlife, another remainder of his mortal self made itself known as it flamed up at that symbolic reminder. His arm spasmed, and those words threatened to unravel him. To have such feelings associated with mere ashes was an undeniably human thing, so bound and written with culture and history, that it took him back to their shared lives on the surface. He re-lived it in all its splintered glory, and at last, was ready to move forward. 

He had left Achilles in life, and Achilles him in death. It might have been the cruel tricks of the gods. Their life was full of untaken risks and sour regrets. Was his love for Achilles not enough? No, love alone was... not enough. But with hope, with Zagreus, he just might be able to forge their own happy eternity. Such a special task required...a special message.

If he’d have his way, this would be his last message he’d need to send, and the first and last kiss the three of them would have apart. 

* * *

He sees how Zagreus loves his Achilles, just like many did before. Just that now, it was not for his worth in gold, or jewels, or how he was a demigod in the sack. For what did any of that matter, to the son of the ruler of riches, to the one who could not die, to the one who offered himself over and over, carving flesh and blood from his own bone? He saw that same love, and for the first time, felt joy, at having his loved one love Achilles as well. If he knew Achilles, he loved this boy too, with his spirit, humbleness, and fierce devotion. It was impossible not to fall into his orbit, and so they were the sun and moon cradling the earth. Now it was time for an eclipse to share the space side by side.

He kissed him with all the longing he had for Achilles, and then some more for the god whose place was so far above his, and yet stopped to talk to a mere shade like him. He stroked Zagreus’s head, and thought of blond curls and inky strands, intermingling. Patroclus tenderly grasped the back of his neck, and with a citrus tang of sour-sweet, re-lived his days at Pelion. Oh, and though it was longing, the infinite distances that separated them were shorter than they ever were before.

* * *

As Patroclus let the silence stew between them, sweeter than gifted nectar, Zagreus awaited his reply. “Stranger. Zagreus” he repeated. “I have one more message, of the…intimate sort. I’d like you to deliver it to him, of course.“

Every sentence the prince said to deter him, instead kindled the embers in his chest, as they began to erupt into open flame. 

“He...he might not take me being the messenger kindly, sir, not to mention _this_ message -” 

“Oh, but he will.” 

“If this eases your burden, sir, you know I would do anything you ask, but-” How could he, when now, brimming with hope, not lean forward and taste those lips? 

“Pay attention, stranger. I have a feeling he’s being obstinate in more than one way. This message might require...a certain delivery.” A suggestive smile spread on his face.

“I hope you aren’t too eager to run off towards the Stadium, this time around. I think a training session is in dire need for this message, and such sessions bear repeating. We’ll need to repeat this lesson... until you get it absolutely perfect."

He tells the prince to kiss his mentor as he kisses him now. His kiss will say that he thinks, with Zagreus by their side, they can be together again. _Let this be our second life. With him by our side, we can be together again, and more. Let this, let us, bring you hope. Achilles._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for wading through that mess!
> 
> some fun things I researched while writing:
> 
> \- The ancient greeks DID measure time by hours! But only during the day, at night, time was measured in "nightwatches"  
> \- Heliocentrism wasn't a thing until around 300BC, and until then the earth was the center of the universe


End file.
